How I Found Literature Again

The release of My Iliad Odyssey is an important event for me. I didn’t know if I was ever going to publish a book again.

In 2020, I was at a dead end in my literary life. My fourth novel manuscript had been rejected by the industry, just like the previous three. Worse, I was finding myself at a loss for what to read. All books seemed to lack what I craved most: transcendence from the normal back and forth of plot to something more valuable, rarer. Isn’t that what great books do? Instead, I found myself on the hamster wheel of literature, reading a book so I could finish it, so I could start another, so I could finish it. I’d always seen reading as important work in the world, a pillar of consciousness, but I sensed I was getting very little from it these days.

Searching for answers, I went to my bookshelf and pulled down my copy of the Iliad by Homer. It was a cheap paperback bought used for a dollar or two at least decade ago and forgotten about. I would read for the first time this cornerstone of literature, but this reading would be different. I would take two hours a week, Sunday mornings from 9 to 11 a.m., for the slow, patient study of this work. I would buy a companion book to clarify what I didn’t understand, as well as a Greek gods dictionary. I vowed not to continue onto the next sentence of the text until I understood the previous one. When I was finished, I would get what there is to get from the Iliad.

Is this the right way to read a book? I didn’t know. What I did know was that my literary life no longer worked for me. I would leave it to the slow reading of the Iliad, arguably the first book of the western canon, to show me what literature still had to offer. If it had nothing, well, there you go.

This practice led to five years of Sunday morning immersion into Homer’s the Iliad and Odyssey. It’s been the most rewarding literary experience of my life.

First and foremost, it reminded me that there is nothing wrong with ancient literature. There is everything wrong with the way we try to read it.

We are now at least 30 years into the digital revolution, which followed 40 years of the TV revolution. We’ve gotten used to interacting with stories and ideas in quick, easy ways. We’ve gotten used to being able to switch between works, written or otherwise, at the blink of an eye. We’ve made our comfort in this process king. If a book or show displeases us, we cast it aside like it’s a royal subject proclaimed inadequate. The subject can be banished from court (closed), thrown into prison (archived), or in extreme cases put to death (deleted).

On one level, ancient literature is at a great disadvantage in this environment. Written millenia ago, these works are not going to captivate us like the latest Amazon stream or download. This level of difficulty, however, is a feature, not a flaw.

A book like the Iliad has been around for something like 2,800 years. Why so long? Because for 2,800 years, society has deemed it worthy of being around. It’s not the result of some marketing firm that’s paid to make you think their product is important. Humanities professors don’t have that kind of power in the world. The Iliad has been passed down for centuries by people whose sole agenda is to make sure we have access to books that can teach us something we’re not likely to grasp otherwise. That knowledge is still there, and it’s the reward for slowing down, reading the work with a companion, and making sure we understand what we’re reading. In short, read the book like it’s king. It’s a benevolent king. It will never reject us, always welcome us back, and wait patiently until we’re ready for it.

That doesn’t mean the king is a pushover. He asks simply that you take the time to read the book correctly. Every time you blow by something in an ancient text you don’t understand, you’ve missed an opportunity to open a window. You have a companion work, a Greek gods dictionary, a plain old dictionary somewhere. Stop reading and look it up.

A favorite example of mine in the Iliad is Homer’s tendency to reference the several tribes that go to Troy. “Argives,” “Danaans,” “Achaeans”—which of these words mean “Greek”? It’s the kind of thing I could imagine leading to someone putting the book down in frustration. I know because I was frustrated. This guy Homer doesn’t know how to write, doesn’t know how to usher me through his work in a way that leads to no friction.

What I didn’t understand was the friction is the point.

Instead of launching the book into the recycle bin, I dove into my companion book, which revealed that “Argives” is merely a way to refer to occupants of the Greek city of Argos. “Achaeans” refers to the inhabitants of Achaea, or a region in northern Greece. “Danaans” are probably members of a tribe whose origin has been lost to history, but it’s believed the Danaans eventually merged with Greek culture. In other words, all the words on some level mean “Greek.”

I suddenly understood something about Homer and the world he created. He’s name-checking these tribes because his listeners (Homer’s work was not read but performed in his day) were paying attention to how their people might play into the story. I could imagine the pride of someone who descended from, say, the Achaeans at hearing about their ancestors’ roles in the Trojan War. This war occurred centuries before Homer wrote the Iliad but was a touchstone for the Greeks of his day. People wanted to be connected to this important event of their history. Part of Homer’s job was to make all of these disparate tribes feel like a cohesive unit, feel like Greeks.

By taking the time to figure out the complex relationships of these tribes, I’d developed a deeper understanding of the book and the time in which it was written. My reading experience just got richer, but you only get there by fighting through the parts that confuse you. The work actually becomes more vital because it confuses you at first.

Such bumps in the road can tempt you to skip to the end of the Iliad. Don’t do it. The book has deep concerns, some of the deepest in the world, but the only way to get there is to go through the process of reading it.

I once saw a video called “Five and a half months in five and a half minutes!” It consists of select scenes captured by someone’s camera set up in the Yukon wilderness for, presumably, five and a half months. This person got footage of wildlife walking by and cut the choicest parts into a five-and-a-half-minute film.

At first, it’s riveting. You see the biggest moose you’ve ever seen walk by. You see a grizzly scratch its back on a tree. You see a coyote scamper past.

Then all of a sudden, it’s not. You see another moose, another bear, another coyote. After three minutes, I’m bored. Every once in a while, something new like a badger waddles by, but for the most part you’re seeing similar moose and bear and coyote as the first ones. I barely made it to the end of the five and a half minutes.

That’s what happens when you try to skip to the end. What if you trudged into the Yukon wilderness and stayed there for five and a half months to view wildlife? You’d have the experiences of getting to your cabin in the woods, getting food for your survival, avoiding wildlife that might see you as food. You’d have plenty of struggle, plenty of friction, to the point that you’d wonder why you bothered to come at all. Then you’d see this giant grizzly lumber by and scratch its back on a tree. It would be amazing, and the best part would be that it would be earned. The good part is only good in relation to what got you there in the first place.

The end of the Iliad is amazing, but it wouldn’t be if I just told you what happens. Getting there is pretty much the whole point.

So, go devour that newly published book you’re interested in. Like, say, my new memoir My Iliad Odyssey That’s the kind of reading I do most of the time.

But also make a point once a week for a couple of hours to read something timeless in a way that leads to greater fulfillment. It will round out the rest of your literary life and make you feel like you’re not having your time stolen from you.